Sunday, February 27

Killamazoo introduces the Derby Darlings

Finishing the second week of Killamazoo, some readers have met Maude and Vivi of the Killamazoo Derby Darlings.

Here’s a recap of the week…

Chapter Two

Maude Cradles shoved her cleaning cart from the elevator, dropping ashes from her cigarette then sweeping them into a crack.

"They need you up front," Vivi said, rolling up, "Some Yooper took a dive. You got blood and slobber with your name on it."

"What's broken on you?"

Vivi and Maude "I got laundry, remember?" Then Vivi pranced her scrawny little ass onto the elevator. "See you at the Snake Drill."

 

Vivi Smyte thought whomever came up with 'zig when you should have zagged' must have played in a roller derby. And most likely, they played on a team with Maude. Arm's length, always enough space for two Vivi's to weave in and out of the line, but not for Maude. She never weaved without slamming the women on both sides of her. "Watch it, Witch. Give me room," she’d say, like it was someone else’s fault she had the finesse of a bulldozer.

What’s worse, inevitably, Vivi would drive her home, because she’d break something in a fight. Ridiculous, since Snake Drills were with her own team.

This night was no different. "Another rib, Maude? Maybe you need one of those Kevlar vests, like swat teams wear."

"I ain’t gotta be bullet-proof to stop bimbo elbows. You giving me a ride or what?” Maude tossed her keys in the air. Vivi let them hit the floor. “Stop at Metro. I need a beer."

"Alright, Maude, but I'm warning you, this time, keep your hands to your self, or I take your bike and you walk home."

 

"Look at you, you gotta go to the hospital this time." Vivi held the stool, while Maude climbed up and ordered two Bad Frogs.

Before Vivi could sit, a red-headed gorilla of a woman came out of a dark corner. "Suck my left nipple," she said,  "If it ain't the Killamazoo Derby Darlings."

"C'mon, Tess, why can't you stay in Detroit?" Vivi said. "Maude's hurt, last thing we need is trouble with you Devil Dolls."

"Aw, my heart goes out to you." On the last syllable, Tess jerked at the leg of Maude's barstool, knocking her to the floor.

From the floor, Maude heard Tess scream, then saw Vivi, her teeth sunk into Tess’ throat vampire style. Vivi raised her head and grinned with blood dripping from her mouth.

Tess clamped monster hands around Vivi’s throat. Maude slapped her face with the barstool, then collapsed on top of it.

"No napping," Vivi said, "Let's get the hell out of here."

Before they reached Maude's Harley, Tess barreled out of the door, sliding to a stop, four-feet away from Maude and Vivi. "You ain't going nowhere, you freaking sluts."

With Maude slumped over the handle bars, Vivi stomped the starter behind her, then hit the gas, pushing the bike down the sidewalk and knocking Tess over a bout official onto a parked car.

When the Harley bounced to the street, Maude raised up. "What the..."

A white-haired man with a sack on his back stepped in front of them.

"Shit." Vivi jerked the handlebar, fish-tailing the bike, but missing the pedestrian. "That was that freak, Burrows."

"No shit? I thought it was Santa Claus."

Ready to join the fun? As before, send me messages or leave comments through Twitter or Facebook. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish the novelette on Amazon and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.

Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…

The year is 1987. A man wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is. He soon learns he’s at the Hotel Elmore in Kalamazoo, Michigan and his name is John Burrows. The woman in his bed is gorgeous, but dead. John’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—Oh, and if that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, our hero looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named Elvis Presley.

Sunday, February 20

Killamazoo poses many questions

As the first week of Killamazoo comes to a close, some readers are scratching their heads. This is a very different kind of tale, but I promise, it’ll be just as zany as Pay Dirt and just as thrilling as Early Departure, especially since you’re helping me write the story.

Here’s what we’ve got so far…

Chapter One

He woke staring at a mirror above the bed and at the .44 Magnum in his hand.

The white in his hair and beard looked pure, compared to the bluish white face of the beauty lying beside him. With three fingers, he touched her cheek, then jumped sideways off the bed.

On his knees, he fumbled for the phone, then punched the numbers 911.

"Housekeeping." Fainting in the Lobby

"Huh? No. Miss, I need an ambulance."

"Mr. Burrows, is that you? You can't dial 911 direct. This is Vivi, extension 91. Say, you need towels?"

"No-mam, I don't think so. Listen, what did you say my name was?"

"Last time I checked, your name was John. You OK, Mr. Burrows? What kind of emergency you having?" He glanced at the corpse on the bed, then down at the gun he'd dropped on the floor. "Mr. Burrows, are you there?"

"Yes-mam, sorry. I just woke up, a bad dream, that's all."

"No worries. Hey, call back if you need those towels."

"Sure thing, I will. Thank you very much."

He picked up the gun and stood, looking down at the body on the bed. "Where the hell are our clothes?"

Then someone knocked at the door.

"Housekeeping."

"Say what?" He opened the door six-inches before it hung on the safety latch. With his physique out of sight, he peered through the gap. "I told you, Lady, I don't need any towels."

"You’re tripping, Burrows. I just got here." The woman filled the area between door and jam, top to bottom. "Open up, I gotta clean your room."

He looked back at the corpse on the bed. "This is kind of a bad time. How long before checkout?"

"Six months at the Elmore and you checking out now, yea right. See you tomorrow." She shoved two towels through the crack and closed the door.

John Burrows picked the towels up from the floor and looked back at the bed, wondering how long it would be before the corpse started to smell.

In the bathroom, he stepped over a lace bra and a blue silk dress to stack the towels with four others, each towel the same, gold, monogrammed with the letter E.

On the counter, he found a rabbit's foot key ring holding three keys, next to a money clip keeping a folded stack of bills and a driver's license. He didn't know the face on the license, but he didn't know the face in the mirror either. The face in the photo had a beard, but brown not white. Holding the license closer to his eyes, the smoother face looked familiar, but still wasn’t a face he remembered as his own.

Donning jeans from the floor, he pocketed the clip and keys, then found a Wolverines sweatshirt and shoes in the closet. Dressed, he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob and looked for the stairs.

If he could find a hardware store, lime would mask the smell of the dead woman, at least until he’d discovered who she was and whether he killed her. How did he know about lime? Hopefully, from working on a farm, or better, from some book or movie.

Down four flights of stairs, he stepped into a crowded lobby and found a woman standing with two men, but staring at him. He grinned and nodded, but she didn’t smile. Instead, she trembled, then collapsed on the floor, her face white.

Not another one.

“We need help over here,” one of her companions yelled, as the other worked to revive her.

When the crowd surrounded the woman, John grabbed a Kalamazoo Gazette from the front desk and checked the date, August 17, 1987. He began reading the lead story, about a child surviving a plane crash, then the woman gasped and someone in the crowd applauded. The woman sat and began to speak, rapidly, saying something about Elvis Presley, then John Burrows left the building.

Ready to join the fun? As before, send me messages or leave comments through Twitter or Facebook. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish the novelette on Amazon and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.

Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…

The year is 1987. A man wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is. He soon learns he’s at the Hotel Elmore in Kalamazoo, Michigan and his name is John Burrows. The woman in his bed is gorgeous, but dead. John’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—Oh, and if that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, our hero looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named Elvis Presley.

Sunday, February 13

Killamazoo Novelette Begins Tomorrow

killamazoo_cover After the success of the Twitter and Facebook novelettes, Early Departure and Pay Dirt, I’ve decided to keep the fun going. Beginning tomorrow, I’ll start a new story that you can help me write. I have a basic plot and some oddball characters, but no ending. The story can take us anywhere we want to go.

As before, send me messages or leave comments. Tell me what you’d like to see our characters do next, where you want them to go, and what you want them to do. Together, we’ll have one hell of an adventure, and when it’s all over, I’ll publish on Amazon and give everyone who helped a complimentary copy.

Here’s the plot we’re working with this time…

The year is 1987. John Burrows wakes up in a hotel. He has no idea who or where he is—but we do. He’s at the Hotel Elmore in Kalamazoo, Michigan. A woman’s in bed beside him, gorgeous, but dead. Johnny’s got a gun in his hand, and someone’s knocking at his door—oh, and in case that’s not wild enough for you, except for his white hair and beard, Johnny looks identical to a guy who died ten years earlier, a guy named Elvis Presley.

What do you think? Sound like fun? We’ll make it so together.

See you tomorrow!

Sunday, February 6

Pay Dirt: The Final Chapter

It’s over. We’ve survived a danger-filled 15 weeks with Bobby Grim, Kat LeRouge, DJ Ponchatoula, and Congressman Rube Rarick. Of course, the same can’t be said for all of the characters, but it was a great thrill ride.

Again, I want to thank everyone following on Twitter and Facebook, especially those messaging hints. Your directions steered the story down different trails than I originally expected, but ultimately your ideas made the adventure more exhilarating as we braced ourselves at each corner, expecting the unexpected. Thanks again!

The following is a recap from the final week of Pay Dirt…

"That perverted politician son-of-a-bitch." The Darknes

"Can't you just kick the door down or something?"

"There's thirty people getting drunk on that porch, one's a cop and just a radio call away from finding warrants for both of us."

"Okay, Muscles, then tell me your..." Kat stopped, mesmerized by the yellow eyes inches above the hole in the floor.

Grim dove, his chest hitting the trap door hard, forcing the gator down. "Feel around for a lock, or something I can stick in the latch."

Kat crawled in the dark, in circles, chains pulling at her ankles. "Here." She picked up a metal U, part of a broken padlock.

Grim road the bucking door like a bull, while Kat crawled over him to slide the metal into the lock, then both fought the door till the noise subsided, leaving only darkness, heavy breathing, Irma Thomas singing in the distance with Kat and Bobby’s faces inches apart.

"Maybe we should focus on getting your chains off?" Grim said.

"Too rusty to pick." She touched his nose with hers. "I say we wait for the party to end and get the key from psycho."

"And till then?"

She looked down at the floor, then up again. "Rip some of those clothes off the walls. I'm not laying on this cold floor."

Hours later, Kat woke to a cold, somehow brighter room. The music gone, the camp quiet. Cricket and frog songs outside. "Welcome back," Grim said.

"Has everyone gone?"

"Rarick's still here. I heard the spring in the recliner about an hour ago."

"Now, do we knock the door down?"

"I think I've got a better idea.” He looked down at the trap floor and shook his head. “But you’re not gonna like it."

Rarick downed the last of his peach brandy and climbed from the recliner, where he'd sat sharpening his skinning knife since the TV crew left. He was anxious to get at the girl, but afraid of the stranger. Who was that asshole? Some friend of the girl's, some lone-nut political assassin? Maybe a cop, maybe one he couldn't buy.

Shaky, Rarick walked to the door, his keys jingling in one hand, the skinning knife gleaming in the other.